The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya

by Robert G. Barrett

  The road was one gentle sloping hill after another, dotted with farms and strung haphazardly with fences. The fields still looked a little dry and sparse, home to a few cows and horses and mobs of dumb-looking black-faced sheep. Around these animals were scattered rolls of hay and stock food bound tightly like bundles of roofing batts, only instead of being pink or yellow they were a dull khaki green. He topped a rise and about five kilometres in front of him was a huge, shimmering expanse of water. That’s got to be the bloody reservoir. A sign on a shed saying Yan Yean Stables confirmed this. Down the bottom of that rise he came to a roundabout where Donnybrook Road met Plenty Road. A set of street signs said Melbourne to his right, Whittlesea 5 kms to his left, Reservoir Road straight ahead.

  Norton checked Mousey’s map again. ‘This is it,’ he said out loud. ‘This is bloody it.’ Despite his early pessimism, Norton was becoming quite excited. ‘Now. What’s it say here again? Follow Reservoir Road two miles. Big tree on right. Cross bridge. Four pine trees on right. Fifty yards direct south of end pine tree. Dig here.’ Norton rubbed his hands together gleefully and drove on.

  Mousey’s map was in miles and yards but Les soon judged when he’d gone the distance. There was no big tree on the right. But there was a huge dead one bleached grey by the sun. A chipped circle around its base said that years ago someone must have got sick of seeing all those nice green leaves stopping soil erosion and giving shade and shelter to the birds; so they ringbarked it. But that could be the tree thought Les. Because if Mousey buried stuff out here years ago, before he went in the nick, that tree would have been all lush and green then. Yeah, that makes sense. He moved on and sure enough there was the little bridge. It was rickety, wooden and old, so that made sense too. He went on further and nearly couldn’t believe his eyes. Just off the road to his right, before it meandered up the hill to the reservoir, was a row of pine trees. Instead of four there were closer to twenty, but the four on this end were noticeably bigger than the others. Well that bloody well makes sense too, thought Norton. There could have been four there to start off with and somebody’s planted a few more. That’s why they’re smaller. Well I’ll be buggered. This is dead-set bloody it all right. This is fuckin’ it. You little bloody beauty. Hardly able to control his excitement, Norton did a U-turn, pulled up in the shade of the pine trees, got out of the car and had a look around.

  There were a few farm houses a kilometre or so from where he stood, the fields fenced off in front to keep the stock from wandering onto the road. Unexpectedly, there was a church just off the road about fifty metres the bridge side of the end pine tree. That’s funny, thought Les. It doesn’t say anything on the map about a church. Then again that church doesn’t look all that old and probably wasn’t built when Mousey buried whatever it is out here. In fact, thought Norton, twenty or so years ago there probably wasn’t much here at all. Only the reservoir and that bridge. There wasn’t anyone around so Les walked over to the little church for a closer look.

  It wasn’t very big and was made of whitewashed wooden panelling built up on concrete piers. The front door was locked but there was a two-door open vestibule built over that with two sets of wooden stairs running into it. Above the vestibule was a wooden cross bolted to the panelling and below that was painted the figure of a man standing legs apart, arms outstretched, in a circle inside a triangle. Above all of this was painted, in red, Church of Scientific Achievement. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of this mob of bible-bashers thought Norton. Oh well. God bless them, whoever they are. Anyway it’s time I got to work. Norton went back to the car, got the map, the compass and the tape measure from his bag, and with his adrenalin starting to pump a little now, walked across to the end pine tree.

  For such an unusually fine spring day, Norton thought there might have been more cars or people around. He’d only seen a couple on the road in and none since he’d pulled up. Just as well I s’pose, he thought. Whistling happily he flipped open the azimuth compass. The needle spun round and Norton adjusted the points. Due south was directly towards the church. Les checked it again. Yep. That was due south all right. With a big grin he tacked one end of the tape measure to the pine tree and began running out fifty yards. The tape was in both yards and metres so that was no problem. It was easy. Easy. Norton kept grinning and following the compass needle and running out the tape measure in the direction of the little church, which was suddenly starting to get closer and closer to the fifty yard mark.

  Yes, it was easy all right. Too bloody easy. Norton’s grin had started to disappear and he couldn’t quite believe it when he found fifty yards due south of that end pine tree was spot-on with one of the corners of the Church of Scientific Achievement. He looked at the spot, frowned, wound the tape up and measured it again. One of the concrete piers supporting the church was right where fifty yards south was. Les measured it out again, even allowing a few inches for the growth of the tree over the years. But Norton could have allowed for the rotation of the planets over the last twenty or so years: fifty yards due south of that pine tree was smack-bang on line with one corner of the church. And whatever Mousey had buried here, twenty years ago or whenever it was, now had a dirty-great concrete pier sitting on top of it, and a fairly soundly constructed wooden church built on top of that.

  Ohh no I don’t believe this, Norton cursed to himself. I just don’t bloody well believe it. But after futilely checking it out one more time, even wriggling the tape measure around in desperation, it was true. As true as God made little apples.

  ‘You fuckin’ idiot Mousey,’ Norton cursed out loud. ‘Why couldn’t you have buried it fifty yards north? Or west? You stupid little prick. You deserve to be in bloody gaol.’

  But you couldn’t blame the Mouse. How was he to know that someone would build a church on that spot.

  Norton gave the side of the church a good boot. ‘Fuckin’ bible-bashin’ bastards,’ he bellowed. ‘Why couldn’t you build your rotten, fucking church somewhere else? You brainwashed bunch of hypocrites.’

  But you couldn’t blame the brethren of the Church of Scientific Achievement for building their house of worship there. It was a beautiful little valley they’d picked just down from the Yan Yean Reservoir. Peaceful, green, secluded and almost in the shade of those lovely pine trees. An ideal place for worshipping the Lord or whoever it was the disciples worshipped. And the elders of the Church probably got the land for next to nothing, too. So there was no way in the world that you could blame them.

  ‘Bugger it,’ Norton cursed again. ‘I should have known something would go wrong.’ His darkening brown eyes moved balefuily towards the sky. ‘You’re crooked on me aren’t you. I know it. You always have been.’

  Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he could dig around it. He checked out around the pier. No, there was a big rock just on the pine trees side of it, so that stopped that. And he didn’t know how far the pier went down. If he dug down and got underneath it, the bloody thing could collapse on him. He’d be there a month no matter what he did. The only way he could get to that loot would be to dynamite the bloody thing. And that was just out of the question.

  Norton stepped back, shaking his head as he let go with another string of curses. ‘Well, that’s bloody that ain’t it. Thanks anyway Mousey. You wombat.’

  He rolled up the tape measure, walked back to the car and threw it and the compass back in his overnight while he dumped his backside heavily down on the driver’s seat. He’d put some fruit from the motel in the bag so he picked up an apple and started chewing on it morosely while he stared glumly out the windscreen at nothing in particular. The way he was chewing, the apple didn’t last long so he put his hand back in the bag to find the two mandarins that were in there somewhere. While he was groping around another two little objects caught his eye. The pair of electric detonators. And another thought suddenly hit Norton like a light bulb of pure diabolical wickedness shining above his head.

  I’m out in the bush. I’ve got the detonato
rs. Why don’t I make a home-made bomb and blow that bloody pier to the shithouse. This is farming country. I could get the stuff and knock one up in no time. He checked his watch. It was just after two. Jesus, with a bit of luck I might be able to find a hardware store and a chemist still open. Bloody oath. Why not? He hit the starter, jerked the car into drive and sped off in the direction of Whittlesea.

  A toboggan hire, set into the hills on either side of Plenty Road, was the first thing Norton saw that told him he was getting into Whittlesea. The local hardware store, still open, was a little further on. A ramshackle old house, a pub and a garage were next to it. Jesus, thought Les, I hope there’s a bit more to the place than just that. He turned right at a saddlery opposite a roundabout and drove down a few hundred metres to where a statue of a soldier faced the main street from in front of another row of pine trees.

  Turning left at the war memorial, Norton could see Whittlesea was a typical Australian small country town. One wide street flanked by various old wooden shops. The only one that seemed to stick out was the local barber shop complete with a red-and-white striped pole out the front. A St Vincent de Paul opportunity shop sat next to it, its windows full of old clothes and other bric-a-brac. The whole place had that sleepy appearance of a town that hadn’t changed much in fifty years; like something out of a book on early Australiana. Nice little town mused Norton, but I’m not here to play Ask the Ley land Brothers. It’s down to business. The chemist shop and supermarket are still open, but I’ll go to the hardware store first.

  The two front windows were dusty and full of dead flies and everything else you’d expect to see in a country hardware store. As he got out of the car Norton noticed that the owner was an agent for the ANZ Bank and for Australian Explosives and Detonator Company. Bloody hell, he thought. Look at that. That’d make things a bloody sight easier. But then again, a stranger in town buying dynamite... Anyway, if I can remember the recipe, this’ll work just as well. A little bell above the fly screen rang as he entered the shop.

  Inside, the little store was just as dusty and cluttered as the front windows. Tins of paint and gas bottles were stacked haphazardly next to chainsaws, primuses, rolls of fencing and water pump parts. A wizened old man in a grey dustcoat and flanelette shirt appeared from out of nowhere at the sound of the bell. With his unruly hair and glasses perched on the end of his nose he looked just as dusty and cluttered as his shop.

  ‘You just caught me young fella,’ he said with a wheezy smile. ‘Another two minutes and I’d’ve closed up.’

  ‘Good on you mate,’ winked Norton.

  ‘So what can I do you for?’ The owner hobbled around behind the counter.

  ‘Well mate. I need a bag of superphosphate and a can of thinners for a start.’

  ‘No worries.’

  Norton shook his head. ‘You’d have to say that, wouldn’t you.’ The owner reached down behind the counter, got what Les ordered and placed them on top. ‘Righto. I’ll tell you what else I want,’ nodded Norton.

  He ordered the other materials for his home-made explosive, materials that can be bought in just about any hardware store. The owner found a cardboard carton and began stacking them in it.

  ‘I’m gonna need about ten metres of copper wire too,’ said Norton.

  The owner shook his head. ‘Can’t help you there lad. The most I can give you is about twelve feet. I ran out on Thursday and I’m waiting for the truck from Melbourne on Monday.’

  ‘Shit! Do you know where I might be able to get some?’

  ‘There’s a TV repair shop at the far end of town,’ replied the owner, screwing his face up. ‘You could try him. But I think he closes at twelve.’

  ‘I’ll try him anyway.’ Norton gritted his teeth slightly and checked what was in the carton. ‘Okay. Give us a plastic bucket, a pair of pliers and a can opener, and that should just about do me.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Righto. Now what do I owe you?’

  The owner itemised everything on the bill and rang up $87.80.

  Norton paid him, thanked him and left the shop. He put the carton on the back seat of the Ford and drove up to the garage. He wanted a can of diesel fuel, but they could only give it to him in a plastic container. He got four litres and a large can of oil. These went in the boot.

  Norton was a bit concerned when he cruised down the main street to find the TV shop closed. Three metres of copper wire was a bit too close for his liking. Maybe he’d find some somewhere else.

  The chemist shop was easy and the skinny young chemist very helpful. He had everything Norton needed including the zinc oxide. The only thing that made the chemist a little curious was why Norton needed 300 grams. The six rolls of sticking plaster, the eye-dropper and two large torch batteries were a clue.

  All Les needed in the supermarket was icing sugar and rubber gloves, plus a couple of Cherry Ripes to chew on while he was working. His only problem now was to find some more wire of some description. Three metres was definitely too close. If the bomb worked properly, and if it didn’t blow his head off, at that distance it could possibly deafen him. He decided to drift around the shops and see if he could spot something while he chewed on one of his Cherry Ripes.

  He strolled over to the St Vincent de Paul opportunity shop and gazed absently in the window. He was going to need a couple of old T-shirts or something to wipe his hands on and clean up that oil. Then something just inside the window caught his eye and solved his problem.

  There were two apple-faced elderly women in the shop having a cup of tea and some scones when Les walked in. They had blue-rinse hair, twin-sets with pearl necklaces and were all matronly charm and smiles.

  ‘Hello young man,’ beamed one. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘I’ll just have a bit of a look around,’ replied Norton, returning the smile. ‘I might find something I like.’

  ‘No worries.’ The two women went back to their tea, scones and conversation as Les drifted in amongst the racks of old clothes, tables of shoes, books, handbags and dozens of other odds and ends people had discarded.

  An old three-in-one stereo had caught his eye from outside the window. Sitting on top of the speakers were two neatly rolled bundles of extension lead. Norton quickly ran his hands over them and judged them to be at least six metres long. Plenty. Jesus he thought. A man’d be a low bastard to steal something out of a St Vincent de Paul shop. I mean, that is about as low as you can get. With a deft tug he tore the two leads from the back of the speakers and dropped them down the front of his tracksuit top. The two old biddies, still munching away on their tea and scones, were completely oblivious to Norton’s daring but heinous crime. On the way back to the counter Les picked up a couple of T-shirts.

  ‘How much for these?’ he asked, dropping them on the glass top.

  ‘Those two,’ said the woman closest. ‘Oh a dollar. Is that all right?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Les pulled out a fifty and dropped it on the counter.

  ‘Oh, dear, I don’t think we can change that.’

  ‘Can’t you. Ohh well. Don’t worry about it. I like to give a donation to the church now and again anyway.’

  ‘Ooh goodness,’ said the other woman. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Ahh that’s okay,’ smiled Norton. ‘I’m a good Catholic boy.’

  ‘You must be,’ beamed the first woman. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘There should be more young Christian gentlemen around like you,’ she said. ‘Not like some others in the district we know. Eh Doris.’

  ‘That’s perfectly right Thelma. Not like some others.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Norton. He wasn’t in all that much of a hurry and the almost shocked look on Doris had him curious.

  ‘Those people up in Reservoir Road,’ she replied with an indignant roll of her eyes.

  ‘Reservoir Road?’ That name rings a bell thought Norton.

  ‘Yes.
That church of scientific mumbo-jumbo. Or whatever it is they call themselves.’

  ‘You mean the Church of Scientific Achievement,’ said Les. ‘What? They no good are they?’

  ‘No good,’ huffed Doris. ‘They’re absolutely disgraceful. They’ve broken up at least six families in the district with their brainwashing methods. They get the children you know.’

  ‘Go on, eh,’ said Norton, trying hard not to laugh.

  ‘And poor old Mr Collier,’ said Thelma. ‘It was dreadful the way they got his land off him. He’s almost ninety too. Poor old soul.’

  Norton looked at the two gossipy old matrons. Christ, I’d hate to get on the wrong side of this pair. ‘Oh well,’ he chuckled, folding up the two T-shirts, ‘the good Lord works in mysterious ways. You never know. These people might get their just deserts one of these days.’

  ‘Oh they’ll get their comeuppances one day young man,’ intoned Doris. ‘Mark my words.’

  ‘I’m marking,’ smiled Norton. He picked up the T-shirts and moved towards the door. ‘Anyway. I must get going. I’ll see you again.’

  ‘Goodbye young man. God bless you. And thank you very much for the donation.’

  For some reason Les couldn’t help himself. He stopped at the doorway, turned around, grinned and stuck his thumb up. ‘No worries,’ he said with a huge wink.

  Well that’s about it I think, mused Les, dropping the Tshirts on the back seat of the car. He had a look at his watch, it was just after three. He still had plenty of time because it would be no good blowing up that pier till it was dark, which should be six o’clock at the latest. That should give him ample time to drive back to Melbourne, get cleaned up and be at that disco to meet Pamela by nine-thirty. Sweet, he thought. Or as they so often like to say around these here parts, no worries.